Mage's Ice and Dragon's Fire
by Kravor
Summary: Those stories of woods-witches creating pacts with lost souls deep in the forest were supposed to be just stories.
1. Chapter 1

10/11/2019: Replaced with revision.

* * *

My name is Varo Dracius. I am a soldier of the Empire, and this is neither the beginning, nor the end, of my story.

They say a man's worth is measured by his actions on the eve of his death. This is a harsh world, where few men are permitted to die of old age and surrounded by loved ones. More die with steel in hand, roaring their defiance against fate even as it cuts them down.

Some die like him, in flight. Running away. A coward's death.

His legs buckle soon enough, sending him crashing into the dirt.

The earth is blessedly cool against his hot skin, a taunting balm that did nothing to quench the burning in his lungs and the dull ache of his wounds. The thick grass tickled his hands as he clawed at the ground to force himself to his feet again.

His chest heaves as he sucks in greedy lungfuls of air. He spares only a quick glance behind him before staggering to his feet once more.

Another lance of pain stabs his thigh, where the broken arrow is still nestled. It feels as a white-hot iron had been shoved in the meat of his leg, and he collapses to the ground once more.

Face down in the dirt, he coughs raggedly. The earth is dry and bitter in his mouth, and he lacks the energy to remove it. Clenching his fist results in a few bright sparks – not nearly enough to heal himself, but enough to give him the strength to sit up. He absentmindedly wipes the blood and spittle from his chin and leans back against a sturdy-looking pine tree as a makeshift chair.

Resting his head against the tree, he finds himself choking out a breathless laugh to the uncaring forest around him. Some part of him finds the amusement in lying against a tree while his lifeblood seeps through broken leather and beaten chainmail into Skyrim's uncaring soil. He'd always imagined his death would be something glorious. Falling on a foreign battlefield in service to the Empire, his last sight his fellow Legionaries beside him.

Here, he has no company but the afternoon rays of Magnus and the cool air around him. It is far better than he deserves.

He swallows, little more than a dry heave, and lets his gaze wander to the sky. Perhaps he will live just long enough to see Masser and Secundus rise over the mountains to the east. That would be nice. The whispering of the wind in the trees teases his ears, almost like a lover's whispered promise. It was alike a soft melody sung only for him, at once a soothing balm to his aching body and a futile assurance that everything would be alright. It was calming. Peaceful, even.

Yes, far more than he deserved.

The whispering wind seemed to pick up, only as it grows he realizes it is not wind at all, but a melody nonetheless, clear notes floating softly through the air from an mysterious voice. The exhaustion has settled well into his bones, making it a struggle simply to turn his head, but he manages. His breath, weak as it is, does not catch in his throat from the pain this time, but rather the sight of the singer herself.

She seems to almost glide over the forest's carpet of springy pine needles, this goddess, for that is surely what she is. Barefoot and clad in a soft blue robe that reaches to her ankles, she sings softly, yet sadly, clear blue eyes watching the darkening sky as her hands rest on a simple cord tied around her slim waist. Her hair falls between her shoulder blades in a single simple braid, dark as ebony, and her cheeks hold a slight rosy glow in the cool northern air.

This, he does not deserve, he knows. Wretched things like him do not deserve to lay eyes on such beautiful creatures. He closes his eyes and turns away, as if that will dismiss the beautiful, taunting figure. Still, he hears her song, and he allows himself to, because he is dying, and perhaps he has earned that, if nothing else.

_Oh, I tell you, I tell you, the Dragonborn comes…_

Shifting slightly against the tree turns out to be a mistake, as the laceration on his back is pulled open, causing him to cry out none-to-quietly before he can stop himself. The singing cuts out abruptly and he suddenly wants to laugh. He did always have a penchant for ruining everything.

He hears her footfalls grow, and a sharp intake of breath above him reveals he's been discovered. He stiffly looks up as an odd guilt crosses his mind, as if he'd been caught with his hand in the sweetroll jar.

Caught watching something he had no right to witness, more like. Truly, she looked even more beautiful up close, the sky-blue eyes that were currently narrowed at his pathetic form entrancing him as much as her beautiful voice had. Unfortunately, they did not distract him from the unnatural frost wafting off her bare hands.

He should panic, he thinks, at least feel the flush of adrenaline at being found by a witch in the middle of the woods. The natural response to a threat. Instead, there's nothing. Just an empty feeling, like the exhaustion has traveled all the way up to his head and there is nothing left.

Perhaps it was the blood loss, or the arrow in him, or the realization that no matter what she could do to him, it would be for naught. A dying man has few cares. Him, even less.

He chuckled to himself at the dry joke, the sound forming more of a strained wheeze from his lips. The witch looks at him in an odd mixture of suspicion and concern. It's a bit hard to discern the look on someone's face when every breath is painful and dark spots are dancing in from the edges of the vision and it's so cold_-_

She takes a cautious step toward him.

He cracks a bloodied grin. "It seems my life is in your hands, witch," he manages to rasp_._

A flash of something crosses her face, but it's gone before he can figure it out. Nonetheless, she dispels her magic, leaving both parties eyeing each other warily. Her eyes flickered over his wounded form; brow knit in concern.

Was it the blood? It's not like it was all his, really.

"You are hurt. Dying. I can heal your wounds. I can save you." Her voice Is no less smooth than in song, a thought which eases him, somehow.

But he's heard this tale before. Witches offering power and sealing pacts to lost souls in the dark of forests, where civilization peters out and darker things rule.

"And what will that cost me?" he coughed.

She pursed her lips and smoothed back an errant strand of hair. "A favor. A promise of aid when I need it."

Interesting. "And what kind of aid does a woods-witch seek from a dying man?"

His chest is tightening and breathing hurts more with each passing moment. She looks pointedly to his armor, scuffed and worn as it is, and the short sword still tied at his waist.

"You are a warrior. That is what I need. Do I have your agreement?"

Had he more breath, more vitality, he'd think to ask why she would trust his word.

No one else ever had.

Yet he can no longer feel his feet, and he has little else to give for collateral.

"For a kiss," he said suddenly. "I will help you."

Her eyes widened, slightly, then narrowed. "Your life is not reward enough?"

He managed something that could be a shrug. Divines, it was cold. "You assume my life is of sufficient worth to me."

"Why a… kiss?"

He coughed. "Isn't this how these stories are supposed to go?"

She was silent for a long moment. "Very well. I agree to your terms."

He should feel surprised. He should have refused. Yet he can barely feel his own arm laying on his belly, and death does seem a worse alternative.

The rustle of clothing draws his attention as the witch sinks to her knees beside him and begins probing his injuries lightly with her fingertips. Her gaze is clinical, stoic. Detached, even for a healer.

But she's not a healer, she's a witch, and so it fits.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Reviews are always appreciated, o reader mine.

10/11/2019: Replaced with revision.

* * *

The soft crunch of pine needles under their feet is the only sound, save his own breath, that breaks the silence.

Oddly enough he realizes only his boots seem to make any noise on the forest floor at all, the witch's bare feet leaving little sound or trace of her passing. She glances back at him every so often, as if she's expecting him to run.

He'd already considered it, of course. And that he likely wouldn't make it very far.

"Where are we going?" he asked, breaking the silence.

She glanced at him over her shoulder, her stride never faltering, but remained silent. Her eyes are like ice in their coloring, leaving him entranced until she turns away.

"Will you at least tell me your name?"

"Illia," she murmurs without looking back.

"I'm Varo."

She hums an affirmative noise but doesn't comment. Unsure what else to say, the rest of the walk is in silence.

Cresting a steep hill, they are suddenly greeted with the sight of a small fort nestled at the base of a mountain.

It takes him a moment to recognize the utilitarian building style of the Imperial Legion, with the curtain walls all but hugging the stout keep in the center, broken only by rounded flanking towers spaced a hundred feet apart. The main gate seemed to be missing the thick wooden doors that would allow the fort to seal itself from outside attack, and the cobbled path up is cracked and overgrown. Thick trees and dense shrubbery grew right up to the vine-covered walls, in defiance of the barren space of two hundred feet that was standard Legion protocol.

A Legion outpost, and one that had been abandoned for some time.

He noticed Illia watching him from the corner of his eye.

"That is your home?"

She nods, turning to look at the decrepit walls. "For now."

She steps off again, leaving him no choice but to follow.

The stone walls grow as they approach, until he can see a figure strolling along the dilapidated battlements. It pauses as they get closer, clearly seeing them, before turning away for a few moments and calling out something. By the time they make it to the yawning gatehouse, a trio of robed figures are waiting for them.

They all wear faded black robes with equally black hoods pulled over their heads, leaving their features in shadow save for the central figure. An elderly Imperial woman, watching them closely with pursed lips and narrowed eyes.

A slight touch on his wrist brings his attention to the witch at his side.

"Stay silent. I will speak for you," she murmurs without looking at him.

The two slow to a halt in the shadow of the gate. The older woman before them, with streaks of silver pepper her dark hair, and her cold blue eyes seem oddly familiar. The reason why clicks when she settles her gaze, sharp and inquisitive, on Illia and speaks.

"Daughter. I was about to come looking for you."

Illia's bowed head is the picture of submission. "I didn't mean to worry you, Mother, I just- "

"I was not _worried_, fool girl," Illia's mother snorts, before setting her sights on Varo.

"Now tell me, who is this man you have brought to our home?" Her smile is off, as if unpracticed. He opens his mouth to reply but is beaten to it by Illia, who gives him a quick glare with her eyes that shuts him up.

"This is Varo. He's accepted your terms and payment has been agreed upon."

The older witch smiles. "Excellent."

She turns and motions to the inside of the fort, and the keep in the center. Her eyes stay on Varo, and he tries not to shift uncomfortably in her scrutiny. The way she looks at him is almost… hungry.

"Come. I'll have you shown to a room and fed. We'll conduct our business in the morn."

He nods, not trusting himself to speak. Satisfied, the older witch and her two companions make their way back into the fort. Illia's eyes are on the interior of the structure, but her words are undoubtedly for him.

"Remember our agreement," she whispers softly, before making her own way inside. He stands outside for a moment longer, too many questions running through his head. He found he didn't have as many answers as he'd like and let out a breath only the forest witnessed.

He fingered the pommel of his blade and stepped into what felt uncomfortably like the lion's den.

* * *

He was shown to a small room by another witch. She kept her hood up and remained silent to his inquiries as she led him to a worn wooden door and unlatched it for him. The room he was presented with had certainly been a storage room at some point, with hay littering the floor and the heavy smell of old wood hanging in the air. A single, narrow bed lay against the far wall with a small chest at its foot. A round table accompanied by two chairs were the only other furniture. A torch mounted next to the doorway provides the only light.

He turned to address his silent guide once more but found her gone and the door behind him closed. He tested the latch and found it locked. Not overly surprising.

Searching the room yielding nothing worthwhile, save for a few marks on the wooden frame of the bed. The chest held nothing but dust, and the dresser even less.

He was interrupted from his musings when the door rattled and abruptly opened, and three robed figures swept in. He recognized one as Illia, despite her hood having remained up, but the other two he did not. One witch held a wooden tray with a steaming bowl and a chunk of dark bread that she carefully set on the table, next to the basin of water placed by the other. Illia, behind them both, brought to him a silver goblet full of a dark red liquid.

He carefully accepted the wine with a polite nod. He didn't miss the scrap of parchment that she slipped into his palm as she released it to him. He could see the other witches over her shoulder, standing with hands clasped next to the doorway. Watching them.

Illia gave him a short bow before turning and leaving with her sisters. He waited only a few moments before setting the goblet down next to the stew on the table and unfolding the note.

_Touch nothing. I will return._

His stomach rumbled as the smell of hot stew invaded his nostrils. He eyed the thick broth and idly stirred the provided wooden spoon through the liquid. He could feel himself beginning to salivate, but his mind ruled over his stomach. He dropped the spoon and moved away from the tempting fare.

At the basin of water, he stripped off his sword belt, bracers and leather jerkin. The gambeson underneath quickly followed, right before his tunic completed the pile of fabric. Shirtless, he splashed some of the cool water on his face and rubbed at his stubble with his bare hands. He fingered his dagger.

Could use a shave while he waited.

* * *

The door creaking open sent a shaft of light into a dark room. The torch had been snuffed out, but the firelight from the hallway was enough to illuminate the shape of a man asleep on the bed. She stepped in, lightly so not as to wake him, and latched the door shut. Slippered feet padded across the cold stones of the floor and she stood at the bedside in a moment.

She reached down to his face and stilled as her hand met only coarse fabric.

A hand clapped over her mouth and cold steel pressed against her neck before she could react.

"Scream and you die."

She was roughly pushed down onto the bed and turned, drawing her knees up. Her eyes were not yet adjusted to the dark, but she could hear him.

"Time for answers, witch. Why did you bring me here?"

"To kill someone." She answered curtly. Unafraid, like she knew this was coming.

"I'm not a damn assassin, woman."

"You are a warrior. Someone willing to kill given proper motivation. Whether coin, command, or faith, every warrior has that which turns him into a killer. A killer is what I need."

"To kill who?"

"My mother."

His pacing stops, and suddenly he's in front of her. "What did you say?" He asks lowly.

"My _mother_," she enunciates, able to see his frown deepen.

"… why?"

"It is better that she be gone, you need know no more."

"It'll take something better than that for me to commit matricide for you, witch."

She huffed. "Do you know what she does here? Within these walls?"

His silence is answer enough.

"Perhaps you've heard of people that disappear," she continued. "This is where they disappear to. And they don't survive what my mother does to them."

"And just what does your mother do to them, witch?"

"Better you don't know."

There's another pause, then a burst of light as the torch lights itself. Varo flicks his wrist, dispelling the diminutive flames from his fingers.

She shifts into a more comfortable seated position as he cautiously moves to stand beside the bed. His blade is tucked back into his waistband, but his palm rests on the hilt.

"I need something better than words, witch," he growls.

"You'll find more than words here, rest assured."

He opens his mouth to inquire _where_, when suddenly the door rattles, causing him to turn. Lightning-fast, Illia hooks an ankle behind his knee and pulls him onto the bed and on top of her. Before he can so much as utter a cry, her mouth is on his and her hands are cupping his face.

He barely feels a draft of air from the door opening, too lost in the sensation of soft lips on his own, and the owner running cool fingers through his hair. One of his hands is tangled in her dark locks, the other grasping a hip as he loses himself to feeling for several precious moments.

Just as soon as it began, it ends, the witch pulling back and silencing him with a finger on his lips. He follows her gaze to the closed door, realizing his second visitor is gone.

She pushes lightly on his bare chest and he automatically sits ups, allowing her to stand and smooth her mussed robes. He's still stuck on the memory of gentle lips until a piece of cloth collides with his chest. He blinks and looks down, recognizing his tunic. Looking up reveals the witch, watching him coolly next to the door with her hands on her hips.

"What… was that?" He manages.

A corner of her mouth twitches upward. "Your payment. Now come. We don't have much time."


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Sorry for the wait, got some IRL stuff going on. I haven't abandoned this story, but with classes starting next week I can't guarantee a quick update. Anyway, enjoy and, as always, reviews are appreciated.

\- Kravor

* * *

One of the witches is waiting for them in the hallway.

This one has her hood down to reveal a head shorn of hair, instead covered in ritualistic tattoos. Her eyes are milky-white, and yet she seems to see them well enough, first eyeing Illia and then Varo with the same scrutinizing, predatory look. Two of the guards flank her, wielding heavy iron greatswords and clad in leather armor.

Strangely enough, they retain the same glassy-eyed thousand-yard stare from before, as if drugged or lost in thought.

The witch's mouth curls up into a smirk. "Sister, where are you taking our guest, I wonder?" Her voice is high and raspy, almost childlike in its eeriness.

Varo carefully looks between both witches, unsure what's going on. Illia seems to have adopted a grimace at this new development, and takes a step forward, hands on her hips.

"That's none of your concern, Rena."

Rena's smile never falters. "You know, I think it is. It's not like Mother told you to bring him, hmm?"

Her gaze turns to Varo for a moment, and he stifles the urge to look away from her unnatural eyes. Oddly enough his mind brings up a comparison of both witch's eyes, and he easily decides he likes the ice-blue better.

"Go away, Rena."

"No, I think I'll make sure he stays safe in his room," Rena croons. "Besides, I had wished to… try him myself before the morrow."

He frowns at Rena's sickly-sweet smile and the memory of Silvia's words. All the talk of himself as if he was a piece of meat was not so endearing, either. Surprisingly, Illia steps up even further, looking down on her slightly shorter 'sister', hands on her hips.

"You can keep wishing," she hissed lowly. "You're not going to touch him."

"Oh? What are you going to do to stop me?"

"Oh, for _fuck's sake_, let's get this over with already."

Both witches turn to Varo, obviously surprised at the interruption. He gives them both an unimpressed look.

"Take them!" Rena screeches as she calls upon her magics and turns to Illia. She throws up a Ward as the dark-haired witch sends a wave of frost cascading toward her and seems surprised when it flows around her. Illia's true target is revealed when both guard's boots are suddenly frozen to the floor. One man was caught mid stride and fell, allowing Varo to slash through his throat without resistance.

Rising, he quickly set upon the second guard, who had gone after Illia. She proved to be quite aware of her surroundings as she deftly moved out of the way of the slow, heavy swings or turned them aside with a dagger she'd produced from somewhere. Seeing she had that handled, he lunged for Rena, who had quickly backed up and begun to spray gouts of fire from her palms. Illia kept up her own Ward to keep the fire off, but Varo had no such protection to close the distance. Dodging and weaving kept the worst of the fire off his person, but he suffered more than a few burns before slicing at the bald witch.

He feinted left, causing Rena to throw herself to the right and into a vicious elbow to the face, hard enough that something cracked. The witch cried out in pain and tripped, landing heavily on the stone floor and cracking her head. Varo spared a glance back at his companion, just in time to see her thrust her free hand toward the man's head. Icy wind shot from her fingers, freezing the man's face and disorienting him long enough for her to slip under his guard and bury her dagger in his chest.

The man went stiff before suddenly collapsing limply to the floor with his comrade. Panting heavily, she limped her way over to him, leaving the two of them looking over the fallen witch. Rena's wails continued unabated as Varo frowned at the way Illia favored her left leg. She brushed off his concern with a dismissive gesture as she sagged against the wall.

Before he could open his mouth, strong arms suddenly wrapped around him from behind in a powerful bear hug and started squeezing. He distantly felt something hot and wet splash on him as he thrashed in the grip, feeling his ribs protest in the crushing vice of arms. Illia made a choked sound of surprise and called upon her magic but hesitated without a clear shot at Varo's opponent.

He threw his weight forward, forcing the man to lean slightly on Varo for support, before doing an abrupt opposite and pushing backward with his legs, slamming the man into the cobblestone wall. The man's grip remained unchanged, however, and he was fast running out of options as black spots began to dance in his vision.

Suddenly he felt ice growing on his shoulder and he gasped at the sensation, but the arms suddenly release him. In truth, not so much release as one suddenly falling slack and him freeing himself before the other arm can adjust. He manages to stumble to Illia's side before getting a good look at his opponent, his blood runs cold at the sight.

His attacker had not been new at all – the man still sported an open gash in his neck, still weeping dark blood down his neck and chest. Despite that mortal wound, and now the spear of ice embedded in one shoulder, he lurched toward Varo again, still-functioning arm raised to throttle him. With a wave of her hand, Illia snap-freezes the creature in a thick coating of ice.

It takes Varo several moments of gasping for breath in which Illia tentatively pats him on the back before he can form words.

"What the-the fuck is that!?" He gestured at the icy statue.

Illia made a face and looked away. "Briarhearts."

He pointedly waits for her to elaborate. She does, after a breath. "Men whose hearts are replaced by black magic and a… seed. It… enslaves their bodies to whoever performs the ritual."

He gives a disgusted sound.

"Think like a soul gem in a dwemer automaton, only more… organic." She finished weakly.

There's a pregnant pause as she studiously avoids eye contact, and that's fine as an involuntary shudder helpfully reminds him of the sticky gore covering his shoulder. Cursing under his breath, he brusquely tore off a strip of cloth from the not-frozen Briarheart and wiped it off as best as he could, which was to say, not very well.

He's drawn out of his own dark musings by Illia's cool hands on his as she takes the rag and helps clean off as much as she could. She gives him a weak smile that he almost returns before her face suddenly scrunches in pain and she leans heavily against him. He catches her shoulders and eases her to the floor gently, eyes quickly drawn to the dampness on the outside of one thigh. Lightly pressing the pads of his fingers against it causes Illia to hiss in pain, and he recognizes the coppery smell easily enough.

Her hand tightens on his shoulder, but she doesn't protest as he carefully pulls up her robe to examine the wound. He doesn't notice the way her breath hitches as the long expanse of bare leg is revealed, devoid of breeches or leggings. He swallows heavily and forces his eyes to keep to the gash in the flesh of her thigh. To his relief it is only a shallow cut, more a glancing blow more than anything, about two inches across and perhaps a half inch deep.

He can almost feel her wary stare as a tangible force against him. Still, he swallows again _when did his mouth get so dry _and carefully probes the injury before channeling his own magics into a familiar soft glow. He thinks he hears her sigh in relief but he's too busy concentrating to wonder for long.

He'd had enough in him to turn it from a weeping laceration into an angry red scar. A blasphemous mark on her otherwise smooth, pale skin. Before he can stop himself, he's meeting her gaze, only instead of suspicion or wariness there's a look in her that he can't decipher even as he slowly pulls her robe back down. Their faces are only a foot apart, bringing up far too many ideas than was safe at the moment. Her shin brushes his hand as she shifts into a more upright position and he jumps, disguising it as a move to stand and certainly not an escape.

He helps her to her feet and stays close as she gingerly tests her weight on the limb, and, after ensuring she can stand on her own again, hastens to put some distance between them.

"Was she really your sister?" he asks, wanting something to break the silence.

"Not by blood. My mother… found her." She didn't elaborate.

He recovers his shortsword from where he'd dropped it during the scuffle and wipes it clean on the unfrozen Briarheart. Nodding to Illia, they set off through the tower.

The next floor saw them encountering the second of Illia's 'sisters'. The other witch hissed and spat as she proved herself an able conjurer, summoning several daedra to swarm the pair. The Scamps were picked off easily enough by Illia's ice-spears as Varo cut down a pair of Clannfears with decidedly more difficulty.

Beheading the second creature, he looked up to see two freshly summoned Fire join the fray. The flaming monsters immediately set to dueling Illia's ice magic with their own fireballs, ducking and weaving around her ice and frost with a taunting dancer's grace. Before he could move to assist a large portal opened between himself and his ally, and he felt his stomach drop at what came out.

Boots the color of charcoal stepped out first, followed by greaves, then the rest of a figure clad in dark armor crafted from something between blackened rock and burnt, twisted bone. Cruel spikes curved out of pauldrons and vambraces in a way no natural metalworking could create, while a pair of protrusions swept back from the sides of a vaguely avian-shaped helm like the horns of some great beast.

The inky darkness past the tiny slits in its jagged helm revealed nothing of the wearer, and yet he knew that it saw him. A deep, rumbling growl emanated from somewhere within as the Dremora took one step toward him, then another, the scrape of its boots on the stone floor like the whetting of a blade on rock. It raised one clawed gauntlet to unhook a great two-handed axe of the same dark material from its back, before letting out a bestial roar and charging the Imperial.

_Remember, lads, the only reason you fight a Daedra on your own is to draw it into a shieldwall where the rest of you can encircle it and put it down._

Unfortunately, he lacked a ready shieldwall behind him to draw the thing toward.

Varo managed to backpedal quickly enough from the first overhead swing, the unnatural axe biting deep into the stone floor. The seconds it needed to pry the weapon out gave Varo the opportunity for a risky stab, only to bite back a curse as his blade only skittered off the black armor without causing any damage.

Like the Briarhearts, it fought with slow, powerful swings of its chosen weapon, only there was a marked difference between the speed of the two. Where the Briarhearts telegraphed their attacks easily enough for even a novice swordsman to notice, the Daedric creature flowed into each attack with an experience born from millennia of unending warfare. The creature shifted its momentum expertly as it alternated between wide horizontal swings and crushing downward blows, leaving no opening for Varo to exploit.

Said Imperial was left entirely on the defensive as he sidestepped, dodged, and generally did his best to avoid being cut in half with a glancing blow. Trying to parry proved useless as his weapon was almost immediately knocked away and his sword hand was left numb from the impact traveling down his arm.

The sudden pain slowed him enough for the Dremora to slam the flat of its axe into his chest, sending him across the room and the air bursting from his lungs. Varo did his best to gasp through the white-hot pain in his chest and barely managed to roll away from a swing that would've taken his head. Half-delirious, he grabbed the handle of the axe with his free hand and kicked out, his heel colliding with the Dremora's helm.

It felt like kicking a brick wall. His foot felt like something was broken but it's enough to knock the creature back, though more out of surprise than any injury judging by its surprised grunt. Unwilling to lose the upper hand, Varo threw himself forward in a tackle, driving his shoulder into its abdomen as his arms wrapped around its thighs and pulled up.

The Daedra and its armor likely weighed more than double his bodyweight and the razor-sharp spikes immediately sliced at his arms and upper torso as he collided with it. Still, he caught the Dremora flat-footed and managed to drive the thing to the floor in a crash of metal on stone. Refusing to let up Varo stabbed his blade into the tiny gap between gorget and helm that immediately brought forth a spurt of acrid, black blood and a roar of pain from the Dremora.

His victory was short-lived as a black, clawed gauntlet grabbed his face and tossed him aside. His back had only just impacted the floor when the creature twisted and drove a dark fist into his belly.

Varo could only choke at the pain, not having the air in his lungs to combat the blossoming agony attacking his insides. He barely noticed the Dremora rising to its feet and retrieving its axe before raising it over the Imperial's prone body in an executioner's swing.

The killing blow was thankfully interrupted by an ice-spear smashing into the Daedra's arm. The creature roared something in its twisted language as it turned toward the attack, just as the frozen, warped shell of one of the Atronachs shattered at its feet. Varo recovered enough to watch Illia deal with the second Fire Atronach with a flurry of icy projectiles.

The Dremora roared again and charged at the slim Imperial woman, apparently forgetting his original opponent.

Illia whipped around, only barely jumping away from a devastating horizontal swing. The other witch used the distraction to begin casting a new spell, azure energy forming between her outstretched hands.

Freezing the Dremora's boots to the floor gained Illia only a moment of respite that she used to regroup with Varo, helping him to his feet as the creature kicked away the ice from its feet.

"Are you alright?" she asked worriedly. Varo just gave her a jerky nod and a dismissive wave as he recovered his sword.

Both turned back toward the Dremora as it resumed its advance. It roared again, sounding more bestial by the minute even as it suddenly faltered, falling to one knee with a surprised grunt. As they watched incredulously, the Daedra looked over its shoulder at its summoner whose spell was nearly complete. The Dremora began to disintegrate into purplish energy that snaked its way back to the glowing orb even as it roared again its its own tongue, only ceasing when it was gone completely.

Before either Imperial could close the distance, the witch released the spell into the air, where it expanded with a clap of force. The witch laughed over the growing maelstrom of energy pouring from the portal, the unnatural magics solidifying as it touched the floor. Soon enough, a hulking shape of ice stood in the center of the chamber, an ice golem so large it had to stoop against the ceiling. Illia reflexively threw an ice-spear, only to watch the shard shatter harmlessly against the Frost Atronach's body.

_A shieldwall might not be enough for this one._

Without a sound, it swung one massive arm at the duo that sent them diving behind a pillar for protection. A follow-up jab refuted that notion as the stones froze and shattered instantly, sending them both scrambling in separate directions.

"Can you distract it!?" Varo yelled over the creaking of ice and shattering stone. The Atronach swung one mighty arm in a downward arc, cracking the stone and leaving a fine coating of ice over the damage. Ironically, the ice aftercoat was the only thing keeping the floor from collapsing.

"Kinda busy here!" Illia yelled back while holding up a Ward to absorb her sister's lightning. She was visibly perspiring and her breath was ragged, much like his own. They needed to end this fight, and soon.

Varo darted forward and slashed at where he thought was the Atronach's heel was, successfully distracting the creature away from his companion despite the lack of visible damage. He led it away from Illia, dodging away from the relatively slow-moving blows and doing his best to ignore his own fatigue. Taking cover behind the pillars ringing the chamber gave him only momentary respite as the daedra needed two or more blows to sweep away the sturdy cobblestone.

Trying to close on the conjuror-witch proved fruitless as she hung back from the fight, throwing out the occasionally burst of lightning or running safely past her summon when she saw herself being cornered. She was clever enough to realize that all she need do was keep away and let her monster do the work, and unfortunately it was working.

_Gods, I should have kept my bow_, Varo grumbled internally, just as he heard a meaty impact and a cry from across the room.

To his horror, Illia hadn't been fast enough and had been almost comically tossed across the room. He pushed aside the sudden stab of fear and made it to her side before the daedra could, frantically grabbing for her arm. Her sudden scream of pain was enough for him to drop her _broken _arm as if burned. Before he could do so much as apologize, a familiar shadow fell over the two and Varo spun on his heel, sword raised.

The Atronach stiffly regarded the two, the woman limp and wailing, the man standing over her. Its faceless head revealed nothing as it raised both titanic arms to crush them.

Varo swore, knowing he wouldn't be able to move them in time. Maybe, just maybe, he could shield her with his own body.

The Atronach brought its arms down as Varo stabbed upward.


End file.
